


If I Tremble

by chaosxtheories



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Grief/Mourning, Slow Burn, Survivor Guilt, post storm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-10-18 07:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20635655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaosxtheories/pseuds/chaosxtheories
Summary: It’s been two days since the storm, neither of you talk about it. You barely talk at all. It’s been two days and while Max even as a kid was the quieter of you both, her silence settles heavily in the air. The cab of your truck has never felt so hollow, and you don’t know what you could say that wouldn’t get swallowed by it, so the words don’t make it past your lips.





	If I Tremble

**Author's Note:**

> I ask that you bear with me as I have been writing this for years and as you can tell from that word count thats some really slow writting but I am in no way shape or form a writer and I'm doing my best. I will finish this, but it may be a while coming.

i. 

It’s been two days since the storm, neither of you talk about it. You barely talk at all. It’s been two days and while Max even as a kid was the quieter of you both, her silence settles heavily in the air. The cab of your truck has never felt so hollow, and you don’t know what you could say that wouldn’t get swallowed by it, so the words don’t make it past your lips.

That day, after the storm, you’d driven until the light left the sky and your hands were shaking so much you couldn’t hold the steering wheel anymore. Until Max said your name, low and rumbling like distant thunder. Her hand dropped from the window to her lap in the corner of your vision, the first real movement you’d seen her make all day, she hadn’t even moved when you stopped for gas at lunch, didn’t even touch the food or water you’d returned with.  
Part of you panicked she’d rewound, so you’d swallowed before replying. Hoping to steady yourself.  
“Yeah.”  
She looked at you and rubbed her face before continuing.  
“We should stop.” And you bit back the tears that had been threatening since the lighthouse and nodded. You both slept in the cab of your truck that night, on the side of the road who knows where, no cars passed in either direction.  
You didn’t dream, hell - you barely slept.

ii. 

The sun had started its descent, your hands had been shaking for the better part of an hour, and Max hadn’t so much as looked at you all day when you pulled into a motel parking lot. You’ve got the better part of $3000 stashed in your glovebox and decided you’d happily pay to not have to sleep in your truck two nights in a row. But now, lying next to Max in a bed that seems both too large and too small you can’t help but notice that she avoids you. Shies from your touch, your view.   
Sometimes it’s like Max isn’t there at all, like she’s gone somewhere and it scares you because what if she doesn’t come back. She cries in her sleep. You suppose you might too. Neither of you talk about it. She doesn't even protest when you steal all the bedding from the motel room the next morning.

iii. 

It’s been three days since the storm and you’re perched on the hood of your truck with your head in your hands at some cliff top picnic area that overlooks the ocean when Max finally touches you. Its feather light, like she’s afraid you’ll crumble under her touch. Two fingers grazing vibrantly colored skin like live wires. If you had the energy you probably would have jumped, but your body is heavy and so you turn your head, careful not to move your arm away from where her skin meets yours incase it never happens again and meet her eye. With blue eyes darkly rimmed and hallowed, she looks at you, and through you all at once. You can hear the waves crash against the cliff somewhere below, your throat tightens and the words you want can’t get past your teeth, so you clench them. She gives you that same small smile she gave you in the truck back in Arcadia Bay, lips pursed and every so slightly raised at the edges, a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She pulls her hand away. You’re so tired, your entire body feels heavy, waterlogged, so you decide to sleep there, in the bed of your truck wrapped up in stollen motel blankets. 

You must have fallen asleep at some point because you wake suddenly to Max violently jerking upright in the truck bed beside you. She wipes at her neck and eyes, trying to scrub away her tears as you sit up beside her.  
“Max?” you call to her, voice rough from lack of use, but it goes unnoticed as her body continues to tremble. You try again and gingerly reach out to her. 

Her name falls dead in your mouth as your hand makes contact with her wrist and she violently pulls away from you making an effort to scramble backwards but her legs are caught in the bedding. She struggles against it, breathing ragged and you make another attempt to calm her, calling her name more insistently.  
“Max.”   
She raises her hand, you don't attempt to touch her.  
“Max, please. It’s me.”   
“Chloe.” Your name is more of an exhale of air than an actual word as her eyes lock with yours. Her hand falls and body stills, but it washes a wave of relief over you. She sags and crumbles in on herself, still wiping at her eyes and neck. Gingerly you wrap one arm around her and draw her into you and hold her till sleep takes you both. 

iv.

It’s been four days since you’ve had a cigarette but somehow the smoke and nicotine that fills your lungs from the cigarette you found on your dash only makes you feel worse. You can just make out Max wrapped up in the bed of your truck in the soft morning light from the picnic bench you’ve sat atop. Once, the scene would have been peaceful but your mind is roaring louder than the ocean below and you’re not sure you’ll ever feel at peace again.   
Something happened Thursday night, something bad. You know for a fact she jumped back through the photo Warren took outside the Vortex party but you don’t know from when. This future Max was clearly distressed and once she left, she didn’t come out of that weird autopilot version of herself until the lighthouse.   
You know something huge happened to her in another timeline, but she won’t speak to you and you don’t know how to ask. You wonder how many times Max relived that week. How many realities she’s visited. How much and how long has she endured it all. Are you even the original Chloe, or simply a survivor from one of the many paths of reality Max has been through.   
You exhale shakily before taking another drag and deciding time travel sucks. 

v. 

This time last week, you woke up to Max Caulfield in your bed for the first time in years. Soft, smiling with her camera in hand, and smelling like chlorine. Today you woke up to a shadow of her, curled up away from you in some dingey motel bed an hours drive from LA. You don’t know why you went south, or why you took the longest route possible. You should have gone to Seattle. You should have taken Max to her parents. You don’t know where you’re going, but you’d always planned to go south with Rachel. So you just went south. 

Rachel. 

Arcadia Bay.

Your breath catches as your throat closes and your eyes sting but the tears dont fall, you just feel numb. You slip out from under the scratchy covers and swing your feet to the ground, it’s been five days and neither of you have even contacted Max’s parents. You lost your phone somewhere between the school and the lighthouse and while Max’s was safe in her bag its been dead for days and neither of you have attempted to charge it.  
You make a mental note to find a charger and stand, scrubbing at your eyes trying to rid yourself of the heaviness in your head as you scoop up the plastic bag that holds the fresh clothes you bought for Max and yourself yesterday and head for the bathroom. Max stirs behind you at the rustling of plastic, but you don’t take your eyes off the floor until the bathroom door is shut behind you. 

You can't even bring yourself to look in the mirror as you pull off your clothes and step into the shower. The waters too hot, you know it is, pale skin angry red but you don't even feel it so you don’t bother to adjust the temperature. It takes you ten minutes to even attempt to wash your hair with the weird smelling 2 in 1 all motels have but there's only so long you can stand under the water with your head in your hands. You just let the steam fill the room until the air is hot and heavy and hard to breathe. Unsurprisingly the mirror is completely steamed up when you eventually step from the shower and pat yourself dry, so you slip on the most atrocious matching pair of pink and white polka dot underwear and bra you had no other choice than to buy and wipe away the steam from the mirror. There's a very tired blue haired teen that looks back at you, dark circles under her eyes and it takes you a full minute to even recognise yourself, skin blotchy red from the too hot water and an expression you hadn't seen on yourself since your Dad died. So you pull on the lame white tourist tank top that reads “Live, Love, LA” and step back out into the motel room.  
Max is sitting up in the bed and she looks about as bad as your reflection does but when she meets your eye she lets out a small huff of air and the edges of her mouth turn up the slightest bit in what could almost be called a smile.  
“You look ridiculous Chlo.” Your head bobs in a small nod of agreement as your lips pull into a matching half smile. She hands you a mug of not quite hot coffee from the side table as you sit on the edge of the bed and doesn't look away.


End file.
